


line of vision

by omphale23



Series: Personal Pineapples [2]
Category: Life, Standoff
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:18:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights he bolts upright, glares around his bedroom at shadows that almost move. He stays awake until dawn, reading books that he finds on his nightstand—Charlie has a weakness for social histories and biographies, but Matt doesn't complain—and ignoring an urge to get drunk on expensive whiskey. That's new since—then. A lot of things are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	line of vision

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks once again to the fabulous [](http://sansets.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**sansets**](http://sansets.dreamwidth.org/) for her extensive beta assistance, and to [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo.bml?user=caersmane)[**caersmane**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo.bml?user=caersmane) and the rest of the folks at [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo.bml?user=cranky_zen)[**cranky_zen**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo.bml?user=cranky_zen) for plot and setting and many other bits of help.

Matt's subconscious hasn't figured out that his world is still spinning. He wakes uneasily in the middle of the night, shivering through a cold sweat and the taste of gunpowder in his throat, his hands clenched into fists. He can't sleep when he tries, and he knows what that means but he doesn't look at it too closely, not even when Charlie starts leaving the business cards of his many, many former therapists lying around Matt's house.

Some nights he bolts upright, glares around his bedroom at shadows that almost move. He stays awake until dawn, reading books that he finds on his nightstand—Charlie has a weakness for social histories and biographies, but Matt doesn't complain—and ignoring an urge to get drunk on expensive whiskey. That's new since—then. A lot of things are.

*

When he needs to get Reese back from Roman, Charlie promises that he'll come back. He says that he'll take care of this and then return to Matt, who's waiting for him and still jumping at shadows. Matt trails off in the middle of sentences and barely holds it together when he tells Charlie to go, but Charlie can't let Roman win.

He finds out that Reese called and told Matt about Charlie getting into Roman's car after it's too late to explain. Charlie doesn't want to think about what it means that Matt never mentions that day. Never even admits that it happened, the same way that once he drives away from it, he never mentions a house in a small dusty town in Utah.

Charlie reads the reports, he knows what happened before he went in, what Matt saw and did, but they don't talk about it. Ever. When he asks, Matt ignores the questions and turns up whatever noise is handy—the television, the radio, and, on one spectacular occasion, a blender full of banana-pomegranate smoothie without a lid.

*

Other nights Charlie is there. For the first few weeks he sleeps on the couch, but when Matt looks up from taking calming, deep breaths, swearing under his breath, Charlie is usually standing over him with a glass of water.

Matt gets accustomed to Charlie wrapped around him as they wait for dawn. Sometimes he falls back asleep with Charlie's fingers winding over his arms, holding him in the present. Mostly he doesn't, so he closes his eyes and listens to Charlie breathing until it's late enough to see the sun.

That's the first few months.

*

Charlie's a light sleeper, and on the bad nights when Matt blinks out of a nightmare, he's already running his hands over Matt's chest, across his collarbones, as he whispers nonsense sounds and hums snatches of melody to slow Matt's breathing. It works, or maybe it doesn't. Sometimes it's the only time that Matt lets him touch, and Charlie wants to be clinical and detached but he misses this, the rapid beating of Matt's heart for reasons other than terror or anger.

*

They start sleeping over at Charlie's most of the time, because Charlie bought a new bed, one without any memories or the echoes of other people. Matt didn't ask for it, but he appreciates the gesture. He tries to say so but can't find a way to start.

*

They meet at the firing range in the FBI basement a few times a month. Matt's a faster shot, but Charlie's better with a firing pattern, makes his bullets count for more. They're not competing, but the crackle of it hovers, the potential that reality could come down to this, that they might depend on knowing how to take a life, for themselves or for each other or for someone they haven't even met yet.

Charlie has gotten worse at accepting that things live and exist on their own terms. He was calm when it was Matt and some random stranger, but then it was Roman and Reese and could have been Matt again, only it wasn't because Matt—

He doesn't imagine the possibilities of missing a shot. Instead, he listens to music that Matt gives him, whistles along as a distraction and a comfort and a way to center himself. He watches Matt take aim, the way that his sleeves ride up as he fires, the slump of his shoulders as he checks the magazine. The tightness of his jaw and the hair that falls forward as he tilts his head and looks for the box of ammo between them.

Charlie comes out of a daze of _aim-exhale-fire-reload-aim-exhale-fire_ to find that Matt has been speaking the whole time, trying to tell him something interesting or important or neither. Matt talks to fill silences, spaces that make him hope for—Charlie doesn't know what Matt hopes. He doesn't know how to ask.

*

On Tuesdays, Charlie meets him for lunch. He's been doing that a lot, ever since Matt transferred back to LA—and that was a bitch and a half, even with Cheryl making calls and the Mills case on his file—and Matt likes it, likes seeing Charlie standing around and chatting with Frank while Matt finishes up an AAR. He likes that Charlie comes out with them sometimes after work, for dinner or beers or just to sit and talk about anything but the job.

He's surprised at how normal it feels, and there are moments when he almost lets the words slip, almost tells Charlie—something. That this is permanent, or it should be. That he's glad he has this life, even with its flaws.

He doesn't, because that would be courting trouble.

*

He's not the only one watching Matt, not the only one worrying. Sometimes when he talks to Frank, they pause, glance over to where Matt isn't listening to anything or anyone, and then choose to ignore it. They let him be, and sometimes Matt comes into focus without any help. Sometimes he doesn't.

Frank will laugh a little louder than the joke requires, or Charlie will reach out and tap his fingers on the back of Matt's hand, and that will be enough to pull him back. It nearly always works.

*

Charlie never pushes. But he started telling Matt how he felt at random intervals after Matt nearly got his head taken off, and he hasn't stopped. Every few days, Charlie will wake up in the morning, and he'll open his eyes and look at Matt and say _I love you_ as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

It's not. It isn't as easy as Charlie makes it, and Matt can't tell if Charlie knows, if he realizes that Matt would say it if he could.

Matt thinks maybe he does. He catches Charlie watching him sometimes, and there's a look on his face that Matt recognizes, that is Charlie trying to wrap his brain around a mystery. It makes Matt nervous, that look. It makes him want things he shouldn't need, things he can't have.

*

Last week, Charlie wandered in as Matt was trying to cook dinner. He stood for a few minutes and watched, until Matt glared at the stir fry and said, _what? Stop staring, you're driving me crazy_. Charlie didn't answer, just turned up the music and grabbed Matt's hand and danced him around the kitchen, spinning them both until Matt was laughing in his arms and then slowing down, pulling him close as they swayed through the end of the song.

He didn't lean in to kiss Matt, but he wanted—he considered it. He thinks before he acts, now that he has Matt back. Measures his words and his actions in ways that he didn't before.

*

Dinner was ruined and Matt almost said it then because _Charlie_ and his smile and that song. Because he was happy and it was almost perfect. But Ted came into the room and the moment broke and he bit back the words, swallowed all the phrases that might tempt the universe to take it away from them. Instead, they ordered takeout and Matt fell asleep on the couch, Charlie's head in his lap.

He didn't wake again until dawn filtered into the room. Charlie was still there, hand wrapped over Matt's thigh and his face turned away from the light. Matt's fingers hovered over Charlie's hair, but in the end he slid out from under Charlie, left him there with a pillow as a replacement while Matt stepped out to smoke a cigarette and get ready for work.

*

He usually wakes up alone, in bed or on the couch or in the backyard on mornings after nights that Matt can't sleep under a roof and wants to be able to see the stars above him.

Charlie wants to be patient, but it's complicated. He's not certain where the boundaries are, what words he can say and which ones will make Matt skittish and angry. He tries to admit what he feels, and sometimes Matt pauses and Charlie can see him thinking, watch Matt turn the options over in his mind and decide _not yet_.

He tries not to be discouraged, but there are days he can't help it. He wants to explain, to reassure Matt that they won't be punished for being grateful.

*

And then there's today, a regular day with Charlie waiting in the chair next to Matt's desk, eating something that Matt can actually recognize—mulberries, and Matt should warn Charlie that he'll end up with juice staining his fingers and his mouth and probably his shirt, but he doesn't—as Matt writes the last line of the last page of one last report and signs off.

Charlie finishes his berries—he's not wearing _any_ of them, and Matt's faintly disappointed—and follows Matt out the door and into the afternoon haze. Matt can feel Charlie next to him, warmer than the air and close enough to reach over and brush his hand along Charlie's shoulder, trail his fingers down Charlie's arm to take his hand. Matt shakes himself and keeps walking.

*

Matt's wearing another of those t-shirts, the ones that seem to shrink in the wash because the universe is trying to drive Charlie to drink. Matt has other shirts, shirts with buttons and collars, shirts that don't ride up when Matt stretches his arms above his head in the elevator, trying to work out the knots from an afternoon of paperwork. Charlie doesn't think he notices that Charlie gets more distracted when Matt wears the t-shirts. That Charlie stops himself in the middle of a story to take a deep breath.

He's not looking. Well, he's not looking when Matt can catch him at it.

*

When they hit the sidewalk, Charlie turns his face up, takes a moment to stand there and breathe, and Matt isn't thinking about anything but how he wants Charlie to be able to do that whenever he wants, how Charlie is always the one who makes Matt hesitate and spend an instant being glad that he's alive. He isn't thinking about consequences, not really, and he's as surprised as Charlie is when he blurts out, "I love you, you know?"

Charlie looks pretty shocked. His head snaps down and he stares at Matt for a second, before he gets this _grin_, like Matt's given him a gift. Like Matt is a present he wants to unwrap, and he didn't realize—Matt didn't know that Charlie was so unhappy with—that Charlie was waiting for him. That he'd been waiting so quietly, for so long.

He can't remember the last time Charlie smiled like that.

Matt can't help smiling back. And then his brain restarts and they're probably going to get hit by a car or caught in a freak tornado or an earthquake, so he walks away fast, marches for the parking garage with his head down. He's digging through his pockets for keys but Charlie drove today, so Matt just ends up tripping himself on the sidewalk and looking like an idiot.

Charlie catches up with him, walks close enough to bump their shoulders together and says, "What was that? I didn't quite catch the first part."

Matt rolls his eyes. "You heard me, asshole. Stop looking at me like that." Charlie keeps smiling, and Matt glances around, because somebody's going to see, something's going to happen if they don't—that smile does stuff to Matt, makes him want to—Charlie's got to stop smiling like that. They're in public, he has to knock it off. "I said stop it, you're scaring the children. What the fuck, did you—why are you staring at me?"

Charlie just smiles harder. He's going to get his mouth stuck like that, Matt's mom always said that if you—and Matt's not thinking of his mother, except that he is, because if he doesn't he's going to drag Charlie into the backseat and they'll get another ticket for indecent exposure. Charlie must see something in his expression, in the glances Matt's trying to hide, because when they get into the car he turns left instead of right onto the street and fishtails into the closest hotel parking lot.

Matt argues, because they'll be at Charlie's house in an hour, even less because Charlie's driving and he drives like a madman. Charlie gives him a scorching look and mutters, "Do I look like I want to wait that long?"

*

Charlie doesn't see the problem. They can afford the hotel, it's right here, and they don't need to go home yet, they've got the whole weekend in front of them. Matt's looking at him and he's admitted that he—Charlie wants to hold onto this day. And he doesn't _want_ to wait, he doesn't like delayed gratification and Matt is—Matt is looking decidedly nervous and Charlie feels a little guilty about that. Not guilty enough to drive all the way out into the hills with this need to have his hands on Matt's skin thrumming through him, but guilty enough that he tries to explain. "I want room service. They have those little sandwiches here, the ones with the avocado in them. We're out of avocado at home. And strawberries, we don't have any strawberries. You love strawberries, come on. Maybe they have pie. Strawberry pie, not avocado pie."

Charlie thinks he might want to keep Matt in bed until it's time to go back to work on Monday. And they're here, they might as well go in because Charlie wants—he wants the nearest place with a door that locks and a bed.

Matt shakes his head, but Charlie can see that he's about to give up. He protests without much conviction, "We don't have any clothes to wear tomorrow." Charlie ignores him, cuts the engine and walks toward the hotel lobby. Matt is still grumbling but he slams the passenger door and follows Charlie inside. "I'm not wearing this shirt two days in a row, Crews, that's disgusting. It was 115 in the shade today."

Charlie stops at the desk, hands over his credit card and asks for a king size bed, the biggest bed they have, and lots of windows. When he looks over to answer Matt, he's entirely reasonable. "You dress worse than Bobby most of the time. I'll call someone, have some store send a pair of ratty jeans and a faded t-shirt and maybe a pair of sneakers with holes in the toes. You'll never know the difference." He doesn't _care_ about the clothes, he doesn't care about dinner, they'll figure it out. Charlie just wants a bed and Matt and if they don't get upstairs soon he's going to throw Matt over his—

"Hey, I don't dress like—I'll have you know these are vintage, they're supposed—" Charlie holds his hand up to the clerk, turns around and leans close to Matt to murmur in his ear. "I don't want you wearing anything at all, and the longer this takes the more likely I am to forget that people can see us. So please, just this once, would you _shut up_ and quit arguing?"

Matt goes quiet, and Charlie turns back and finishes gathering up the room key. The clerk is trying not to laugh, and Charlie winks at her. He grabs Matt's hand and pulls him to the elevator, pushes the button a few times, and keeps his thumb running over the back of Matt's hand. He's counting out a rhythm, and pretty soon Matt's humming along under his breath.

*

The elevator takes forever, and when it finally arrives Matt follows Charlie in, pushes the button for their floor. Just as the doors slide closed Matt sticks out his foot and stops them. Charlie looks at him impatiently, but Matt points up at the open lights. "Camera. Back corner. You want to explain that to Reese when we end up on some website?"

Charlie shakes his head, and Matt pulls him along to the stairwell. The room's on the third floor. They can probably make it all the way to a bed. If he knows Charlie, they won't.

Charlie doesn't disappoint him—they get as far as the shadowed lee of the stairs before Matt's up against the concrete with Charlie pressed against him, their joined hands caught between. He closes his eyes to the feeling of Charlie kissing a line over his jaw, down his neck to the edge of his collar. Matt groans a little as Charlie shifts his hips, grabs both Matt's hands and wraps them around his waist.

Matt crumples the fabric of Charlie's jacket in his hands and holds on. Charlie steps between his feet, brings his hands up to tangle in Matt's hair and pull their mouths together for a kiss. They're rocking against each other, gasps echoing in the stairwell, as a door somewhere above them creaks open. Matt drags his head backwards, shifts his hands and pushes Charlie back a step. "This is a bad idea. Upstairs, okay? Just—hold that thought."

*

Charlie would cheerfully eviscerate whoever just made the noise that caught Matt's attention, but he knows better than to argue. He steps close for one more kiss, and then carefully climbs the stairs, _one, two, seventeen, twenty-four, thirty-one_, walking a few inches from Matt, their fingers brushing.

They scuffle for a moment at the fire door but Matt wins, dragging the door open and planting his hand in the small of Charlie's back to shove him through first. Charlie steps through the door and down the hallway. He isn't Orpheus, doesn't check to make sure that Matt is still there.

He's working on trust, taking small gestures as lessons.

When he gets to the room, Matt leans against the wall nearly within reach and watches Charlie with an expression that makes him drop the keycard, scramble for it on the carpet for a moment. It takes three tries to get the light to flash, and Charlie doesn't look over but he can feel Matt laughing at him. He likes making Matt laugh, almost as much as he likes making Matt lose control and shake apart, fists clenched and head thrown back—

Matt's there before Charlie takes a step, holding the door wide and sliding his hand across Charlie's belt, wrapping his fingers under the leather and using it to pull Charlie back until their bodies collide. He hooks his chin over Charlie's shoulder and they stand in the doorway for a few heartbeats, until they're breathing in unison. Charlie closes his eyes, and Matt lets go of the belt, slips his hand over Charlie's pants until he's palming Charlie's cock through the fabric. Charlie shudders, and Matt chuckles in his ear, low and promising.

*

He isn't sure how close Charlie is to coming undone, but Matt's working at keeping him there, right on the edge between coherent and falling over with wanting. He gives Charlie the lightest of pushes, walks him into the room and forward to the bed. He's tempted for a moment to blow Charlie up against the wall, but Matt hates the scratch of hotel carpet and Charlie doesn't look like he'd manage to keep his feet if that happened.

So instead he spins Charlie around, wraps his hand around Charlie's neck and pulls their mouths together, so that he can kiss Charlie properly as the door behind them thuds shut. Matt takes the sudden silence as a cue, and runs his other hand down Charlie's chest to his belt, tugs at the leather and pulls it loose from the buckle. Charlie is moaning against his mouth and Matt smiles, works his hand over the button at Charlie's waist and then pulls his zipper down slowly.

*

Charlie's head is spinning and he knows he should do something, anything, demonstrate that he's capable of being an active participant in this. Instead, he steps backward when Matt pushes, tilts his head to follow Matt's mouth, and when his knees hit the bed, topples over in a heap on the mattress.

*

Suddenly Charlie drops away from him and Matt almost stumbles after but catches himself, jerks back upright. Charlie's lying on the bed, blinking up at him. He's still wearing his jacket and his tie is neatly knotted and Matt shouldn't find that funny but it is, a little, until he lets his eyes drift lower, to where Charlie's pants are undone and his hips are shifting a little, trying without much thought to get some sort of friction. And _that_ is not funny, that gets Matt's attention and he drops to the floor between Charlie's knees and leans in to push Charlie's pants lower on his hips, drag his clothes down until Charlie's cock springs free and he can run his tongue up it to the tip.

Charlie whimpers above him and it's awkward with fabric still bunched around Charlie's thighs, but Matt doesn't care. He inhales, takes in the scent of starch and wool and under that something that is just Charlie, that reminds him of home. He's taking his time, trying to draw this out, but Charlie manages to get his wits back enough to put words together, mutters, "Come on, Matt, come _on_," and reaches down to tug at Matt's hair, try to get him closer.

Matt's on board with that plan, and he lets Charlie guide him, wraps his mouth around Charlie's dick and his hand around the base, runs his tongue around the head as Charlie's fingers tighten and his legs tense. Matt knows he's close, so he speeds up his strokes and sucks hard at Charlie's dick, lets his eyes drift shut so that he can concentrate on the taste, the slide of Charlie in his mouth, the scrape of fabric against his hand and his cheek.

*

Charlie lets go of Matt's hair and scrambles at the coverlet, fists the cotton in his hands as his hips start to buck into Matt's mouth. He feels Matt's hand wrap around the back of his thigh, pulling him closer and Charlie shifts himself on the bed, gives Matt space to move.

Matt holds him in place, takes a deep breath and swallows, and Charlie doesn't even wonder at where Matt learned that trick and how he's been hiding it, he just arcs into Matt's mouth and comes with Matt's name ringing through his mind.

*

Matt coughs, chokes a little as Charlie jerks under him and the sudden impact makes his eyes water. When he gets his breath back, Charlie's lying spread out under him, gasping and shaking a little with the effort of keeping himself on the bed. Matt grins and pushes at him, drags Charlie's pants off the rest of the way and leans down to pull off his shoes and socks as he does. When he stands up, Charlie is sprawled on the bed sideways, still wearing his jacket and shirt and an endearingly stunned expression, the lines of a tattoo disappearing at the edge of the wrinkled cotton.

Charlie frowns. "Do I want to know when you learned to do that?"

Matt waves his hand vaguely. "I had internet access while I was hopping around between hotel rooms. You'd be surprised at what you can find in the way of instructional materials if you look hard enough."

Charlie looks skeptical. "Instructional materials? Like handouts and quizzes?"

"More like porn, but if you want to think that, fine with me." Charlie nods his head slowly, already plotting, and Matt reminds himself to clear out the browser history later. Ted's going to hate it if he borrows Charlie's computer to chat with Olivia and gets a surprise.

He doesn't want to think about Ted right now. Not with Charlie here in front of him, spread out like the sky, like—Matt's forgotten the rest. But Charlie's definitely wearing too many layers, he needs to be a lot more naked right now. "So, not that I'm complaining or anything, but were you planning to take off the rest of your clothes?"

Charlie looks at him with something that isn't quite a smile and slips out of his jacket and shirt. Then he slides up the bed and leans back against the pillows, hands behind his head, totally calm. "Your turn."

Matt's not going to argue with that.

*

Charlie's a lot more willing to wait for Matt now that he's feeling floaty and warm and relaxed. But Matt's in a hurry, almost falls over trying to get out of his jeans without taking off his shoes. Charlie snickers when Matt gets caught up in his shirt, kicking at his sneakers and twisting himself as he gets free, mumbling rude things about the designer's parentage as he does.

He takes the moment of distraction to push the coverlet down, kick it free of the end of the bed so that he can stretch out on the sheets, which are crisp and cool and pale against his skin. Charlie's learned to appreciate good things like sheets and summer days and Matt, who is still fighting with his socks a few feet away.

Even with that, it's less than a minute before Matt's standing next to the bed naked, breathing hard and swaying a little. Charlie wraps his hands around the headboard and Matt's gaze snaps upward, and then back to Charlie's face. He nods slightly, and Matt's eyes widen. He spins away, leans over to rummage through Charlie's pockets—Charlie takes a moment to appreciate the view—before he climbs onto the mattress and crawls up it to kneel between Charlie's legs.

Charlie doesn't move his hands, and he can see Matt debating with himself, trying to decide between a fast, hard fuck and taking his time, going back for Charlie's belt and something to use as a blindfold. Charlie tilts his hips up, and Matt shakes his hair out of his eyes, feels around for the lube and pulls Charlie toward him until his arms are stretched taut and his thighs are wrapped around Matt's hips.

*

Matt's almost decided to take his time when Charlie bows himself upward, shifts closer to drag his skin over Matt's dick, and Matt—Matt can't say anything, all he can do is grab for Charlie and slick himself up, wrap Charlie's legs around him and push in, _too fast-too slow-not enough-now-now-now_, barely holding it together long enough to wait, to make sure that Charlie's okay before he starts to move.

*

Charlie's stretched out, holding himself up with only the smallest of touches from Matt's hands, as Matt starts to drive into him harder, sparking shudders behind his eyelids. He's starting to lose focus, and Charlie forces himself to open his eyes, to watch Matt shifting above him, to hold himself still even as his muscles start to burn and his arms start to twitch with the tension.

It's no more than a few minutes, couldn't be because Matt is barely winded when Charlie feels him tense, grab Charlie's hips hard enough to leave bruises, and groan through his orgasm. Charlie shifts himself experimentally, watches as Matt shakes at the friction, as he gasps and jerks away at too much sensation. Charlie smiles and files that bit of knowledge away for later.

For now, he pulls away from Matt and rolls off the bed, walks into the bathroom on shaky legs in search of a towel and a glass of water. He grabs the room service menu on the way back, but when he stands next to the window, Matt's curled in a ball at the edge of the bed, eyes shut tight against the pink-orange light slanting bright and hot into the room.

*

He hears Charlie ask about room service, but Matt's already sliding under, his eyes closing without his permission. He's barely aware of Charlie dialing the phone, caught instead in the scratch of Charlie's palm over his back, the fingertip patterns he's drawing from neck to shoulder to spine as if tracing a picture that doesn't exist. He makes a vague noise that might be agreement and gives over to dreams he won't remember when he wakes.

*

Charlie stays awake and watches Matt sleep. He thinks about nothing and everything, about the way that Matt looks exhausted all the time but never slows down. He thinks about Matt's face when he's forgotten that anyone can see. Charlie worries that he can still follow the possibility of nightmares over it, see tensions that won't entirely leave. That he can recognize moments he doesn't want to remember in Matt's middle-distance stare.

Matt slides closer without waking. Charlie runs his hand down Matt's shoulder to his wrist and holds on lightly, careful not to wake him but needing the feeling of fingers tucked around bone, Matt's pulse under his thumb.

When he hears a knock at the door, Matt stirs but Charlie leans over, whispers into his hair, soothes him back into sleep for a few more seconds.

Even so, by the time Charlie comes back with the room service tray, Matt is sitting up in bed. He grins as Charlie strips back out of his pants and pulls the covers loose so that Charlie can slide beneath them. They eat slowly, because Matt is more interested in Charlie and his fruit salad than his own food, and Charlie defends his plate, both of them getting distracted by the taste of each other.

*

He's half-awake when the food arrives, torn between hunger and the pull of the sheets and Charlie at his back. Matt lets himself float, tries to put off a conversation that's been hovering for months, but it only works when he doesn't think. By the time they get to dessert he's counting down the minutes until they run out of distractions again.

*

When they're finished, Charlie slides further down into the bed, and Matt links their hands together, pulls Charlie's hand over his chest and stares at it, runs the fingers of his other hand lightly over the middle spaces where their skin runs together, _freckle-pale-freckle-scar-freckle-pale_. Charlie waits for him to ask whatever he's trying to ignore.

Matt finally clears his throat, and Charlie feels him take a deep breath. "Tell me a secret. Anything you want."

It sounds like a lost memory, and Charlie wonders who else asked that question. Still, he doesn't hesitate. "I almost killed a guard. It started out an accident, and he would have killed me if I hadn't, but he ended up in the hospital, spent six months in a wheelchair. He never came back. Everybody knows that part, but the secret—the thing I don't—I wanted to do it. Wanted him dead, gone, away from me and everyone else in Pelican Bay." He waits, but Matt must know that isn't everything. "I'm still not sorry."

Matt blinks at him. Charlie realizes that he hadn't expected an answer. "Oh."

Charlie shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe it doesn't matter now. But it did then." He tilts his head and meets Matt's eyes. "Your turn." Matt bites his lip, and Charlie's gone too far again. He does that a lot, he needs to learn not to do that. "If you want. But it's not really fair, if you don't offer anything as a trade."

Matt stares at the window for a minute, watches the curtains shift in a sudden breeze. He shakes his head and looks back at Charlie. "I love you."

Charlie pulls Matt's hand up to his mouth, kisses the back of it. He thought there would be more, but he's not surprised. "Okay. I knew that, but okay. If that's what you've got."

Suddenly Matt looks angry. Charlie's just broken some rule of a game he didn't know they were playing. "That's it? You're just going to let me—"

Charlie nods his head. "It's enough, Matt. It can be, if that's what I get." He's not sure he believes himself, but now isn't the time to start that argument again.

Matt closes his eyes. "No, it isn't. You can ask for more. I have more. You should—we ought to—don't be afraid to ask me. You should ask."

He isn't sure why it matters, but Matt looks so serious that Charlie nods his head, leans up to kiss Matt lightly on the jaw. "So tell me another secret. A new one."

Matt curls himself around Charlie and starts telling stories.


End file.
